Just Another College AU
by get-higher
Summary: Your very first college party ended with you drinking 8 strawberry wine coolers and puking in the bushes. But before that, she was the first person to say hi to you. You still remember her Charlie Brown t-shirt and ripped jeans. She told you she liked your glasses and offered you a bottle. It was the first time you'd ever seen eyes that pretty.
1. Chapter 1

ididntmeanyou asked: "I like dancing with Santana the best" Objection- Shakira

"I don't want to be the exception

To get a bit of your attention"

—-

Sixteen minutes. That's all you've got left. If today's gonna be the day, you need to grow your lady balls. And you need to do it quick.

"Do you see how they're related?"

She's worrying her bottom lip while staring down at the small print spread out before you. You bite your lip and wait for her response, hoping to clear at least some of the confusion on her face. Literature isn't for everyone, and it's definitely never been Brittany's forte.

Might be a problem moving forward being a sociology major and all.

You've considered telling her that now that you're kinda...friends. Maybe. You haven't asked for clarification and honestly, you probably won't. What you have with her is more than you've ever dreamed anyway.

Yet still, you can't help that gripping background feeling that comes and goes. You've watched the way she dances and how easily she takes over the stage.

It's just as effortless for her to light up a room.

Like right now, brows wrinkled and features fallen, she's the closest thing to perfect you've ever seen.

"Kinda, I guess." Her voice is pretty indicative, sarcasm and all.

"Want me to explain it again?"

"Not really. I just don't see how a poodle can be a demon."

"It's a disguise. He's trying to take his soul."

"By offering a contract? Why not just take it. Isn't that what bad guys do? "

"Yeah, but is he really a bad guy? Or is he just offering a bad decision?"

Her fingers move to her forehead and she stares at the book. She looks frustrated. Confused, too but mostly frustrated.

"I guess both."

"In this instance, the author wants you to consider it more of a personal option."

She exhales. "Either this book is stupid or I'm stupid."

You chuckle lowly and smile in the briefest manner, a soft way to display your adoration without attaching anything to it.

Friends smile.

Right?

"Britt, you're not stupid. You're doing good, I promise. This book is hard and it's meant to make you think. You just gotta get to know it better, is all."

A loud sigh comes out in response, and she slams her book shut in defeat. "I honestly don't know how I'm supposed to write a paper about a bad guy stealing souls that's not really a bad guy. Ugh. I just…"

You pause. You lift the edge of your glasses up the bridge of your nose and wait patiently for her train of thought, taking the time to admire the faint freckles scattered across her skin. You love how blonde her hair looks today. Like sunshine and daisies. She's so pretty.

6 minutes.

"You're just…?"

"I'm just over it," she responds dejectedly. "I'm over today."

You can't help but feel a disappointed blow to your fragile heart.

"Well, can try it a different way," you offer, your palms sweating, heart beating erratically as she begins packing her things. "We got a couple more minutes until 7. Maybe I just need to be more creative or something."

"San, that's really sweet but honestly I can't today. This morning was the worst. Quinn's got mad at me and I lost my training iPod after practice. But I kinda think Lord Tubbington's stole it. I found a One Direction song on there the other day."

You laugh and cringe at the same time, because she's so fucking cute and One Direction is so fucking bad.

"Poor Tubbs."

"I know. I might do an intervention."

"Oh, definitely. I feel sorry for him already."

For the first time all morning, she finally smiles. And it's for you. Not Quinn. Not anyone else. Just you.

"I'm gonna go. Thanks again, San. You're super helpful, like always. "

60 seconds.

You know what's coming. She's does it everytime.

You hold your breath and count the seconds as she leans close, her fingers wrapped around your wrist, the smell of her hair making way to your senses. And when the faint brush of her lips finally reaches skin cheek, something aches. It might just be your cheek, but it still makes your chest throb and knees weak just the same.

10 seconds.

"I'll see you next Tuesday. Should I bring anything?"

You want to tell her. You have so much to say, yet your tongue feels heavy. Everything is dry.

"…San?"

You lick your lips and meet her eyes. Hopefully she doesn't notice your hands shaking.

"Oh, um, no. Just, uh…bring your book and notes, like usual."

"Okay." She smiles, grabbing the door handle and turning. "Bye, San."

You feel a draft from the hallway enter your dorm before the door closes.

0.


	2. Chapter 2

11 months ago (48 notes)

**#**fanslide

**#**sometimes jackie writes stuff

**#**as requested

helenaisalwaysfun asked: Hello :) all your fanslide fills so far have been sooo good, I love your writing so much. Can u do one for I Wanna Be Yours by the arctic monkeys?

A continuation of this.

"Secrets I have held in my heart

Are harder to hide than I thought

Maybe I just wanna be yours"

You hate it when she brings Quinn.

Albeit a rare occurrence, the two previous occasions were equally awkward. Quinn would sit disinterested in a single booth across from you, headphones plugged into her ears and a disinterested look on her face.

Today, not so much.

You can feel her eyes deliberately hanging upon you, scanning your features, studying the placement of your hands like she wants to make sure you're keeping a safe distance from what she considers hers.

And you think maybe, just maybe, she knows.

It doesn't seem to faze Brittany however, and you maintain your focus on her.

"But you have to look for the parallels. It's really easy to understand once you get the big picture."

"But like, it's all just war and stuff."

You smile knowingly. "Exactly. It's war no matter if you're in Paris or London. That's why it's called "A Tale of Two Cities." Her soft eyes flick over to you, engaged, hanging on your every word.

"So that's it?"

"You're so much smarter than you think, Britt."

"Yeah?" It's like she needs clarification and you're more than willing to comply.

"Yeah."

You immediately feel insecure. You didn't mean to sound so soft and shy.

But her reaction is so beautiful you don't care.

You watch every slow movement—how her nose wrinkles and the slimmest part of her lip turns up into a smile. You can't help but flicker your gaze that little touch lower, just enough to fill your tortured fantasies. They exist to learn details—if her mouth is made of the velvet you think it might be, if the texture changes with her habits. Maybe they're kinda dry in morning and lusciously wet at night. Maybe the taste of her tongue is both cutting and sweet.

And then there's that feeling between your legs that's desperate to know about other pink fleshed parts as well—textures, tastes, and—

"You should just download the Spark-notes. It's probably easier."

Quinn's irritated voice is like a cold flush through your very untouched vagina, and you're not liking anything about it—tone, weird feeling, and all.

"I mean, yes, you could, but profs know when you're relying on that stuff," you combat. "You're doing well. Just keep at it. You've got me here whenever you need me."

She blushes in your direction and your heart begins to race. Always a race.

"Thanks, San. You're good at explaining stuff. I like it," she confirms.

You glance over to Quinn again because you swear you hear something that sounds a lot like a scoff, and that's when you see she has a knowing look across her face.

Another cold flush, and your heart races in a different way.

It's an uncomfortable enough moment for you to close your book and start packing up your things. Brittany eyes you intently, and you imagine she's a bit curious why you're the one leaving first.

That look. You kinda want to tell her that if she'd just give you half the chance, you'd never leave.

"Sorry to leave so soon, but I've got a project due tomorrow and I need to get going on it." Your voice shakes more than you intended, so you hope it seems sincere.

Brittany gives you an adorable pout but says okay. Quinn stares. A lot. You take a few brief glances her way, watching her watch you. It's pretty indicative. You doubt you've done any convincing.

Fuck her. She's...whatever.

You swing your backpack over your shoulder and aim your smile. "Call me if you need me, okay B?"

"K."

And because it would be rude not to address her, "Nice seeing you, Quinn."

She looks at you with a hard gaze.

"Night, Santana."

It's the first time she's ever not kissed your cheek goodbye.


	3. Chapter 3

11 months ago (39 notes)

**#**fanslide

**#**sometimes jackie writes stuff

A continuation of this

You're staring angry daggers. All subtlety in the moment has been lost and you don't even care.

This has got to be some kind of twisted joke. Like, seriously.

It started with Quinn holding what looks like a fucking wedding bouquet behind her back, then she did some kind of slow reveal like she's in a bad romantic movie, and Brittany's smile couldn't be any bigger...

Well, at least you thought you couldn't.

When she presses a gentle kiss to Brittany's lips and those blue eyes gaze at her all adoringly, it gets worse. Your blood runs hot. Your jaw clenches and your hands ball into tight fists, and you're two seconds away from asking Quinn Fabray what her game is and why all the sudden vested interest in Brittany…

She's never come to one of her games, ever. You know, because you're all every. single. one.

Their hands linger together for a moment before she lets go and you watch Brittany grin all the way back to the dugout. Quinn rounds the bleachers and the taste in your mouth becomes an unpleasant one.

She saw you at the top of the bleachers a long time ago though and one thing you're learning is that Quinn Fabray is an astute woman.

Her steps are deliberate. When she grows closer you can almost feel the sly grin in your direction.

It's kinda gross.

"Well well, this is a surprise. I've never seen you at one of these shindigs. You're not missing an important magic card match, are you?" She sidles up next to you like there isn't a single worry in her world. You want to slap that stupid smile off her face.

"Hate to break it to you, Fabray, but I'm always at these shindigs. You, on the other hand...what's the matter? Daddy's limo usually won't come out this way?"

She glares. You smile wickedly.

Two can play this fucking game.

"Some of us have better things to do."

Pfttt.

"Like fuck leprechauns after rehearsal?"

Her eyes slowly look you over like she's forcing herself not to give too much away.

"Who told you that?"

"No one that matters in this conversation."

You lick your lips and find Brittany down by the other cheerleaders. She's doing her routine pre game stretches, all smiles, completely oblivious to this other world.

"Not that it's any of your business, but I am not, nor do I have any interest in fucking Rachel Berry."

"I'd hope not," you state plainly. You know better, though.

She doesn't say anything. She chances a glance down at Brittany and you suddenly remember why this conversation is relevant.

"So why now? Why take the time out of your 'oh-so-busy' schedule?"

"I have my reasons." Her gaze finds yours down by Brittany.

"Funny how you never seemed to care about those reasons before." You let the sarcasm drip from your lips.

Her eyes come up to meet yours and she gives you a hard glare.

"Oh, I always care about what's mine."

You scoff.

She shifts so she's looking directly at you. Her eyes blaze with intent.

"Santana, we both know you're smart,' she states as a simple fact. "And you're well aware who my father is…"

You swallow thick and just stare ahead, knowing where this conversation is headed.

"Speak, Santana. I don't like repeating myself."

You roll your eyes. "I fucking get it."

"Good. Cause I'm gonna give you the opportunity to show me just how smart you are. You see that woman down there? She's mine. Mine. And if you even so much as look at her, I will fucking destroy you. Got it?"

Her words sink as your anger rises. "Are you threatening me?"

A smug-ass grin plays out on her lips before she answers, "Do you really need an answer?"

You laugh as you stand slowly, making sure your stance is as powerful as you feel. She thinks you're just gonna back down like some kicked dog and your pride really needs her to come back down to reality.

"Listen here, Berry-Fucker. I know once upon a time your nanny told you that you're a special snowflake, but I'm gonna make this real simple: you're not. The damaged white girl thing doesn't work for you and the baby-hitler ego-trip definitely doesn't work for you. Brittany's a good person, plain and simple. She doesn't deserve your bullshit. Your daddy's money doesn't change that. I don't know what personality quiz you need to take to get your head outta your ass, but you need to figure it out quick."

Her mouth hangs open and you just sit there, still seething.

"Because if you hurt her, you're gonna be the one who needs to watch their back."

She goes to speak, but you're already walking away, ignoring her shouts.

"Sorry Q, gotta find a seat. Pre-game is my favorite part and I don't want your face to ruin it."


	4. Chapter 4

11 months ago (28 notes)

**#**fanslide

**#**sometimes jackie writes stuff

Anonymous asked: hi again! part three of your college AU was soooo good, please tell me you are writing part four?! PLZ?! your writing is AHMAZAZING and I really wanna find out what happens!

A continuation of this

Tuesdays are your guilty pleasure.

Of course, there's never enough guilt to overcome the pleasure- definitely not when she's in those spandex shorts- but something about Brittany and the way she loses herself in the moment… it's special.

She has so much talent.

And it's not just because every move she makes is like liquid sex, though, yeah… there's that. Rather, it's so evidently aesthetically pleasing when her hips twist left to right, or when her feet land perfectly to the downbeat, or how in sync she moves. Everyone around her just lacks that certain element of confidence; no one does dance like Brittany.

You look around when the music stops momentarily, and in the next second, Beyoncé blares through the gym speaker. It starts slow and then the beat picks up, leaving you to watch in awe; her hair whips, hips thrust, ass sways. She crouches and swings her legs open and closed, open and closed, teasing, like she knows how many times you've masturbated to that etched image in the back of your mind. She doesn't even bother to wipe away the single bead of sweat which glides down her chest, only to get lost near the swell of her breast.

Christ, does she make your lady parts do stuff.

You've never been so sad to hear a Beyoncé song come to an end.

Yet you can't be disappointed when she comes towards you, hair disheveled, shoulders glistening with accrued sweat. Hell, you can't even pretend to be interested in the inferential statistics page splayed out before you.

Even your pride can't help you.

Her chest heaves and your heart beats even harder.

She's so, so hot.

"Hey San. You're early again." She pats her towel on her chest, wiping away that sweat finally.

Well, that's new. You've never been jealous of cotton before.

"Yeah. Stats keeps getting out early. Seems like a waste to go all the way back to my dorm."

You might be lying. A lot.

"I don't mind meeting you there. Really."

You shrug. "It's fine. This is more convenient." You give her the biggest smile.

She smirks. "If you say so."

You shrug a shrug that's desperate to change the subject. "So, what do we have today?"

She pulls a folder out of her bag and gives you a stapled, printed handout of Shakespeare sonnets. Perfect.

Well, for you, anyway.

"This is kind of a lot, Britt. Do you wanna go over this here, or maybe go grab some dinner?" You try not to sound hopeful.

She sighs.

"Might as well. I'm starving."

"Cool." More than cool. A million times cool.

She goes to hand you a twenty dollar bill, but you shake your head.

"I told you, Britt. You don't have to pay me."

"But San, that's—"

"Britt, really, it's okay."

She looks at you with an appreciative yet adoring smile that makes your chest swell, and god, to see that look every day…

"Can I at least buy you a milkshake?"

You so don't want to grin like a fool.

Stay calm. Breathe. She's just being nice.

"Sure."

She smiles one of those dangerous smiles that sends you to the edge of hopeless.

"C'mon," you urge her, swinging your bag over your shoulder and heading towards the student center.

She matches her steps to yours and helplessly hopeless, you are.


	5. Chapter 5

She's doing that thing again where she's flirting with you, yet not really. Like, it seems entirely innocent and unintentional, but it still makes your heart pound a little harder and your fantasies become just a little more intensified.

Especially since Shakespeare has still yet to come into conversation and you're already 46 minutes into your meal.

But who's counting?

"No way."

"It's totally true," she insists.

"So why exactly aren't you dancing for Beyoncé anymore?"

She shrugs at you while nonchalantly licking the milkshake residue from her spoon. You watch the way her tongue twirls against the metal, short swipes and smooth circles…

Spoon porn.

Memory porn.

You're lost in all the ways you'd like to fuck her across this table when your own spoon crashes to the floor.

"Fuck," you mutter. Real smooth, Lopez.

"Here, you can share mine," she offers, holding out the utensil she just tongue fucked. Should you tongue something she just tongued?

You shake your head but still smile warmly at the gesture.

"It's cool. I was done anyway."

More smile shrugs.

"Hey, don't evade my question," you remind her.

"Umm, does that mean like not answering?"

You grin and nod. She blushes like she doesn't want to answer, but you know she does.

"I mean, I dunno. I learned a lot and really liked it, and having my own money was awesome… but I can't dance forever. And my sister, Emma—she's 17. She looks up to me and I want her to see me doing it right—going to school, you know? We didn't have a lot growing up. I want her to have more than that."

You nod. "That's really cool, Britt. I didn't know you had a sister."

"Yeah," she beams with pride. "She's… super smart and talented. She plays the violin."

"She's good, huh?"

Her eyes shine, lips curl and cheeks redden. Her expression is so adoring, you're actually in love with the way she's lighting up right now. You wonder how many people get to see her like this, with such vulnerable pride. It feels special.

"She's amazing," she boasts.

"Good family genetics," you tease.

Her grin dulls but doesn't fade. "I'm not good at stuff like she is."

"How do you figure?"

"Like, she understands books and movies and she knows how not to lose stuff."

"Britt, you can do math problems in your head that take me forever. You know things better than you think."

She bites her lip and looks away from you, but that doesn't stop you from saying what you need to say.

"Losing stuff isn't the end of the world when you so have many other things going for you. I've never seen anyone dance like you can. You're just as smart and talented as Emma, I promise."

She brings her eyes back to you and this time they stay for a while, long enough it almost makes you blush. Finally, she gives you a barely there smile.

"Yeah?"

You nod. "Yeah."

"Promise?"

You chuckle lightly and hold out your hand, extending your last finger, if only to solidify your feelings on the matter.

"Pinky promise."


	6. Chapter 6

Three days a week, you sling lattes at the campus coffee shop for minimum wage. It's not exactly glamorous, and you smell like a Colombian prostitute by the time you get home, but it gives you the gas and grocery money you feel too guilty to ask your parents for.

Mostly, it's just an inconvenience—less time for you to spend on homework; but the work is easy, and faking a smile is even easier.

Sometimes.

You're mid-way through icing down some kind of vanilla spiced bullshit when you hear a familiar voice.

"Q, I'm not going. I can't miss. I'm barely keeping up as it is," she says.

"Baby, come on. I'll help."

"You said that last time and I flunked my comp midterm." You can sense the sternness in her voice as you look over, but Quinn is wrapping her arms around her in what's meant to be a romantic, encouraging way.

To you, it just looks sleazy as fuck.

You see it out of the corner of your eye—the way Quinn presses close and brings her lips to Brittany's ear, whispering softly.

In your darkest fantasies, you hold her in almost the exact same way, but you press more firmly against her—dominant, controlled, and the weight of your breasts warms her back. You draw out your words and use your voice as a weapon; you tell her exactly how you're going to fuck her—slow and deep strokes that curl upwards—and she loves every second of it. She sighs when you tease her with soft flicks of your tongue against her ear, and you can feel her shiver beneath your touch.

Just the thought makes you wet.

"Santana!"

Or rather, a vanilla latte all over the front of your crotch does.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

You're frantically trying to find a towel when Evans throws you one.

"What the hell are you doing?" He watches you as you're patting your crotch.

"I, uh…"

"Blonde, two o'clock," he mentions.

You look over and she's staring at you with a smile. Not the "laughing at you" kind of smile, but maybe a "you're pretty dorky and I like it" kind of smile.

You'll take what you can get.

"Dreaming about wizards again, Lopez?"

Quinn's voice makes your skin crawl and you glance over and make sure your boss isn't looking before shooting her your middle finger.

"Is that how you treat a paying customer?" She asks sweetly, staring directly at you.

"Is that the kind of outfit personal shoppers buy you?" You give her a once over, making sure you linger a judging glance at that 80's, pleated skirt and tucked-in blouse with frills. Shit looks like something from _Designing Women_.

"I'm sorry for your poor taste."

"I'm even more sorry for you."

"Uh, um," Brittany interrupts with an obvious throat clear.

Yeah, you forgot she was standing there.

"Hey, Britt," you smile awkwardly, almost feeling bad for being a dick just now. Almost.

"Hey, San."

Your throat catches with the urge to tell her you've missed her the last couple of days, that you haven't stopped thinking about her since you had dinner.

But you can't.

Instead, you stand there like an idiot until she smiles and says, "I like your hat."

You watch the way she glances at your cotton flat cap with a steaming coffee cup logo, and you want to crawl in a hole somewhere and never come out.

Quinn's eye-rolling doesn't help, either.

A nervous "thanks" is all you can muster, but Brittany smiles anyway.

"Alright, are you done playing with yourself or do we need to walk over to Cooley Hall?"

"Hey, be nice," Brittany pleads.

"Baby, you know I get cranky without coffee," Quinn whines.

"Yeah, but you can still be nice to my friend."

It's a stern reminder, and your heart stops and flutters as soon as she says it.

Because you're not just some nerdy tutor.

You're friends with Brittany S. Pierce.

Boom, motherfucker.


	7. Chapter 7

You're sleepwalking. You just have to be.

There's no way she's standing in front of you, looking you up and down in just a tank top and boxers as you hold your dorm door open.

This is not reality.

"Hey," she says, backpack swung over her shoulder, eyes to the floor. Everything about her just appears defeated.

You run your hands through your hair and swallow thickly. "Hey."

"Can I come in?"

You sense the stress in her voice immediately, so you open the door further, silently welcoming her in without a second thought.

You're still wiping the sleep from your eyes when she stops in the middle of the room and crosses her arms.

"I'm so sorry. I know it's early..." She's shrugging her coat off her shoulders, " I just… I don't know what else to do. I need you."

Yup. _Definitely_ a dream.

"What's going on, Britt?"

Your heart starts beating fast when she looks around the room, scanning the surroundings. "Can we stay here, or is…" She's referring to the two beds, both empty.

You lick your lips as your heart pounds erratically. "Um, my roommate dropped out a few weeks ago…" You're licking your lips nervously, thinking this is way too close to your last wank-bank fantasy.

You see the evident tension when she drops her bag to the floor and plops onto your unmade bed.

"My exam is in two hours and I'm totally not prepared. I told Quinn I couldn't go with her to Cancun and I still went like an idiot…"

You don't need to hear anymore. You know exactly what happened. Quinn basically made a bunch of promises she couldn't keep.

Sounds pretty normal, actually.

"You're not an idiot."

_Quinn_ on the other hand-

"She doesn't get it. Like, this stuff isn't easy for me."

"I know," you answer with a trying smile.

"I can't lose my scholarship." Her hands cover her face worriedly. She digs her fingertips into the skin on her forehead, trying to ease away her frustration.

"You won't," you promise, slowly reaching for her hand. You wrap your fingers around hers and pull gently until her face is uncovered, allowing you to look at her once more.

She gives you a curious gaze as you smile lightly, enjoying the warmth of her eyes, the lines of her cheek, the length of her lashes.

She's so pretty. And not in that contrived, "too much make-up" kind of way. She's effortlessly pretty, ridiculously so.

Her eyes move to your lips and you watch them. You wait as they scan left to right, gaze flickering up and back down again.

"Thank you," she offers.

"Always," you whisper, offering your pinky.

She chances a glance down at your hand and you can't help but get butterflies in your stomach. She's the only one whose ever made you feel confined and limitless at the same time.

And you quite like it.


	8. Chapter 8

You're two seconds from taking a swig of your slurpee when Evans rips it from your hands.

"What the actual fuck?"

"Dude, I'm thirsty."

You give him your best 'look at all the fucks I give' face before taking your drink right back. "Gross. I don't want your guppy-faced herpes. There's a concession stand right behind us."

He looks back from your spot at the top of the bleachers and his face falls. "Really? Have you seen that line? It's all the way to the parking lot."

You shrug, your eyes glazing the field to see if you can catch a certain cheerleader. "Do I look like the caring type?"

There's a pause, and then the glare he gives you is obvious. "Look, don't get all mad at me because Brittany hasn't called you."

There it is again. That pang of disappointment.

"_Dick_," you mutter.

He bites his lip with regret and offers some sorry-ass apology. "Dude, sorry."

Yet, all you can do is act nonchalant. You brush it off with a hand gesture. "It's whatever."

The truth is, you were hoping to hear from her after she came to your dorm room three mornings ago, but you've gotten a whole lot of nothing.

While probably good for your mental health, it's been detrimental to your mood.

"It is midterm week. Maybe she's just busy."

"Maybe."

Suddenly, your slurpee doesn't taste all that great. Your stomach is swimming, your head hurts, and the marching band three sections down keep stopping and starting the Fight Song at whim.

"Here," you thrust the cup at him.

"But— I thought…"

"Take the damn thing, before I change my mind."

"You okay?" He asks as you start to get up from your seat.

"Yeah. I just need to pee. I'll be back."

You trudge through the drunken idiots and find your way to the bottom of the bleachers, walking fast and quiet, keeping your eyes fixed on the bathroom sign. You're almost to cement when something stops you. Or rather, someone.

"Hey," a familiar voice says.

Her hand is wrapped around your bicep and even through the fabric of your hoodie, you can feel her touch. It's a slow let-go process, and when you finally look up, you're awed by how good her neck-line looks in that cheerleading outfit. It's an issue for you.

Her eyes are a cool blue and her smile is as big as you've ever seen.

"Hey." You can't help it that it seems like a forced sentiment.

"I…I know it's been a while. I wanted to text you today, but I've been trying to finish up this Physics lab."

You press your lips together and shrug it off. "Oh, yeah. I mean, I get it; that's cool."

You stand there awkwardly, hands shoved into your back pockets, eyes looking to the ground. Well, until she breaks the silence. "I got my exam grade today..."

That wry smile will be the death of you, you just know it.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"…And?"

"I totally got an 87."

Your mouth drops. She beams with smug pride. You can't help but adore every second of it.

"Britt, that's awesome!"

And before you know it, she's wrapping her arms around you. You feel your Chucks lift from the ground as she picks you up and spins you through the air, a grin never leaving her face all through your twirl. Even when she sets you safely to earth, you still feel elevated.

Maybe because she's still hugging you.

God, that smile is contagious.

"Just… thank you, San." You breathe in the smell of her skin as her arms hold you tightly, and when your fingers tangle and her pinky searches for your own, you swear your stomach flips.

"You're welcome."

"I gotta get back, but..."

You bite your lip, knowing you're gonna give her that look again.

"I'd like to see you soon," she admits.

"Yeah?" You ask in that way she always does.

"Yeah," she smiles shyly.

When her arms reach your shoulders and wrap around your neck, you feel every bit of the earth.

And her lips to your cheek are always the best part.


	9. Chapter 9

Your blood moves slow, skin prickling, hands trembling. It's cold as hell and you've been out here over an hour, waiting for Sam. You honestly want to slam a sledgehammer into the wall. The scraping sound of metal would feel good right about now.

No, take that back. A sharp object to Quinn Fabray's face would feel even _better_.

You take a deep breath and try to get a handle on the situation. Your crappy little Civic might be a piece of shit, but it's all you have, and it gets you where you need to go.

Well, when it doesn't have slashed fucking tires, it does.

Your ass is just about numb from the curb when Sam swings his truck into the parking space next to you. He's blaring country music like some kind of honkey-tonky hippie and you remind yourself to make fun of him later.

"Dude, what happened?"

"Quinn Fabray, that's what the fuck happened."

"Quinn? Hot Quinn? Wait, she did this? Why?" It's almost like he doesn't believe it.

"I dunno. Cause she's a bat-shit crazy twat-rocket?"

You know it was her. The note tucked beneath your windshield wiper — _"Still think I'm kidding?"_—was blatant enough.

Who does that? Bitch is cray.

"Can't you report her?"

"And how would you like me to do that? All the security cameras are miraculously missing. It's her word against mine. And her dad is the fucking _Dean of Admissions_." You kick the gravel and watch dust and rocks fly out beneath your shoe.

You don't mean to direct your bitterness at him, but fuck, you're mad.

On top of everything, it's Tuesday. You never miss Tuesdays.

"Hey, I'm just trying to help."

"I know. I'm sorry… Thanks for coming."

"It's cool."

You grab everything you need out of your car and jump into the passenger side of Sam's truck, trying not to hide your disappointment.

"Why don't you just call her?" Sam suggests.

"Who?"

"Who do you think?" He teases, glancing over at you.

You roll your eyes.

"Maybe it's her turn to come and see you."

Concealing your smile, you mumble, "Just keep your eyes on the road, guppy face."


	10. Chapter 10

Special thank you to my super helpful translator.

You're flat on your back, arms tucked under your head as you watch her. You love how fascinated she looks while running her fingers over the books lined across your shelf, curiously stopping and stalling when something catches her interest. You smile when she finally lands on Candide by Voltaire and lifts it from its place, tracing the binding and scanning it thoroughly.

"Um, why do you have French books?"

"Because I enjoy them," you state simply.

"So you speak French?"

"Not perfectly, but yes."

"_Hmph_."

She momentarily pouts her bottom lip like she's impressed and slips Candide back on the shelf before continuing to rummage.

You feel guilty for enjoying the way she moves, licking your lips when the muscle in her bicep flexes, eye-fucking the way her pants hang just-so around her hips.

Quinn would murder you.

Too bad you give zero fucks about that crazy bitch.

You smirk when she pauses for a beat, clearly engrossed in something.

"What?" You ask.

"I guess I just didn't realize you were so…"

"Dorky?" You tease.

"Intellectual," she corrects while giving you a glance. "All your fancy law books."

You chuckle lightly. "Well, I am pre-law."

"Yeah, but you're like…"

You watch intently as she loses her words.

"I'm what?"

She shrugs it off. "Nevermind."

You want to ask more. You want to know how she feels—mainly about you, if the way she sees you is different from the way you see yourself. Does she find you attractive? Smart? Funny? Does she seek you out in a crowded room?

If you're honest, you've been feeling quite a bit of… uncertainty recently, and you're too afraid to ask questions.

Something changed for her. You're not sure when or why, but the dynamic of your relationship has shifted. Now it's more intimate. She texts more attentively, watches you more closely, sees you without reason.

It's like she wants to spend time with you.

You definitely want to spend time with her.

You like it.

You like her.

So much.

You just need to not ruin a good thing with your insecurities.

"What's this?"

Brittany grabs your attention when she holds up a little black book, quizzically flipping through pages of your French handwriting. Your face flushes, stomach sinks, heart picks up speed.

Fuck…

Of course she'd find that.

"It's… uh. It's something I was writing."

"Was?" She raises her brow.

"Well, am, I guess."

"What's it about?"

You blush. You hope your cheeks aren't too red.

"It's uh, about a girl."

"Okay?"

"She's in love with another girl."

Please don't be obvious.

"Oh, so like a steamy romance?" You try to ignore the excitement in her voice.

You shrug. "Uh, kinda."

Her face lights up as she walks her way over to you, book in hand and a random page open. You're not expecting it, but the bed shifts. Her weight moves as she slides in beside you, inching you over as her body presses against yours in such a small space. You can smell her hair as she settles in and tucks her head against your shoulder, handing you the book.

"Read me some."

Uh.

Fuck.

Your heart slams.

Why does everything feel like it's moving so fast, yet not at all?

"Uh…"

"Please?"

Those fucking eyes.

You sigh. "Yeah, sure."

You clear your throat and begin looking for a segment that will be less incriminating than others.

"That one," she points to a random page.

"This page? Why this page?"

She shrugs. "The writing looks cool."

Another sigh.

She studies you as you lick your lips and slowly begin making out sentences in your head.

And you begin.

"_e veux plonger dans ta forteresse_

_Au plus profond de tes sculptures et matériaux rouillés et précieux_

_L'aura ambigüe de la nouvelle année_

_Le touché de ta chevelure au venu des rayons d'Avril_

_Les couleurs de ta robe reflétée par les fleurs de Mai_

_La chaleur émanant des lueurs de l'automne_

_Le gout de tes lèvres sous la beauté du gui_

_Laisse moi accéder à ce qu'il y a de plus profond chez toi_

_Que je voie chacune de tes saisons avec transparence_

_Et que je t'aime en chaque moment."_

When you glance over, she's already staring with rapt attention, watching your lips.

"It's really pretty," she says.

"Thanks," you swallow.

"What does it mean?"

You chuckle nervously. Why does she smell so good? It's distracting and not fair.

"Uh, a lot of stuff."

"Translate it for me?"

You roll your eyes, really not wanting to. "Britt…"

"Please?"

You don't say anything. She stares. Silence falls.

Fucking hell.

_"I want inside your fortress_

_Your hollow carvings and rusted precious metals_

_The clouded breath of New Year_

_The touch of your hair in April showers_

_The color of your dress after May flowers_

_The windswept warmth of autumn's cheeks_

_The way you taste beneath the mistletoe_

_Bare me the seasons of your walls_

_So I can see you through the moments_

_And love you in each."_

You don't need to glance over to know she's still looking at you.

If your heart was slamming before, you have no idea what it's doing now.

You've never been this close before. Now you see the trail of freckles across her nose, the perfect curve where neck meets shoulders, how soft and red her lips look.

Her eyes are still flickering over your features as well. You feel them everywhere, caressing your skin, focusing on the corners of your mouth. The dampness of her breath is closer than it was just a few seconds ago, lips right there. All it would take is a fraction of initiative and you'd be kissing her.

And she moves.

You don't.

You only sigh as her right hand travels through your hair, leaving you to feel like a million atoms coming undone all at once.

Is this real life?

Her touch is so much better than every sleazy Cinemax fantasy you've ever imagined.

The nervous butterflies become overwhelming when she wets her lips. You want to shift. You want to kiss the hell out of her, but you wait. You look at her and wait some more, and when she does move, your world tilts.

You taste the slightest bit of salt when she catches your bottom lip softly, slowly. She doesn't move back. Your mouths stay together and build a speed that lacks urgency. Your main goal in life is not to whimper into her mouth.

Until she grabs a fistful of your hair.

That moan is involuntary.

And then you're deepening the kiss and allowing your left hand to settle on the small of her back. Your tongue runs over her bottom lip and finds entry into her mouth, which she is all too eager to give, and it's your turn to coax a moan.

You could live off her little sounds of pleasure.

Her tongue glides against your tongue, and she's rocking her hips down into you, grabbing you by the belt.

Fucking hell, you're only human.

"Britt," you gasp, trying to gather some clarity. Everything went from zero to sixty really fast and you haven't even had a second to catch your breath.

But the way she sucks on your tongue makes you so fucking wet, and—

"Fuck," you plead, pulling away. "Britt, we have to stop."

You still her hands and watch her, chest heaving, eyes dark.

The reaction comes progressively—eyes widen, cheeks pale, fingers nervously twine. Her fall from grace comes crashing down, and you can pinpoint the exact moment it finally registers to her what just happened.

"I, uh..."

She stumbles over her words nervously like she's about to freak out and you want to reach for her, but you're not sure that's a good idea and her chest is heaving and she's still really hot and what is happening—

"I should...go," she swallows.

"Britt, you don't—"

She grabs her coat and you stand. You want to give her space, but you also want to know what this means. You want her to stay and kiss you again, harder.

You want and want and want.

"Bye San," she says before leaning in again and pressing her lips to your cheek. They linger there probably a second too long and leave tenderly.

You ache when the cool air hits again.


	11. Chapter 11

You don't hear from her the day after she kisses you. You're not sure if it makes you feel better or worse.

The space doesn't give you perspective. Instead everything feels heavy, precarious. Doubts surface. That looming sensation in your stomach settles. You begin wondering what you could've done different. Should you not have kissed her? Maybe you could've held back. But then again, she kissed you first. That should count for something.

On day two, the counting begins.

51 hours. That's how long it's been since you last heard her voice and you can't help but feel restless. You think about her in a million different ways, wondering where she is, what she's doing. You daydream through Law and Ethics with visions of her day vivid in your mind. You refuse to believe she's with Quinn, not after what happened. No, Brittany probably went home to see her sister for the weekend. She and Emma are having ice cream at that little shop around the corner from her house—the one with the pale blue trim she told you all about. You envision her sitting at the counter on one of those spinning bar stools, baggy hoodie, hair damp from the Ohio rain and her tongue poking out at butter pecan.

You dream the day away until you can't call them daydreams anymore.

But you do call day three "Self-Pity Sunday."

Sam texts, but you don't answer. You lay in bed like you don't have a million better things to do, watching Netflix with a pint of Chunky Monkey, all the while convincing yourself it's not pathetic.

On Monday you ruminate over her lips, her curves, the softness of her breasts. You revel in the memory of her skin and how loose strands of blonde hair fell against your face. You fuck yourself vividly back into your memories, desperate to keep the images crisper in hopes they'll take longer to fade.

On Tuesday, you crack. You text and call her, but she doesn't answer. You can actually feel your heart break when she doesn't show up to practice and you're left sitting on the bleachers alone.

You just miss her.

On Wednesday and Thursday, you merely exist. You float through your days, sharing conversations with Sam you can't remember, taking notes on topics you can't bring yourself to care about. It's like the only thing you can see are blurred edges of reality and the only thing you can feel is her.

It isn't until you bomb your Stats exam that you finally come to terms with life. You kind of knew before, but it becomes blatant that you've been neglecting what's important.

You've never done that before.

The 180 you take is immediate. You get your shit together and push away dark thoughts, despite the way your heart screams. Fucking hell, no one's ever died from a broken heart.

Keeping busy helps. You bury yourself in law and ethics books until your eyes can't stay open and you wake up with your face planted to the desk. It takes two Advil and a strong cup of coffee to make your jaw stop hurting like a bitch, but at least you're being productive.

Maybe it's a blessing that she isn't talking to you. At least now you don't have to worry about Quinn's backlash.

Not that you were worried, 'cause you definitely would've thrown the fuck down, but yeah… one less thing to keep track of.

Well, not just one…

Then again, she was never yours to worry over.


	12. Chapter 12

When you finally see her again, it's bittersweet. You're mad. You're relieved. You want to push her and fuck her senseless at the same time.

Maybe push her against the counter and then fuck her senseless? Seems like the best of both worlds.

The pang in your chest dulls yet intensifies as you look her over, noting comparisons of Brittany two weeks ago and Brittany in the now.

You've never seen her so blonde. Her eyes are almost sky blue in contrast to the rich color her skin holds. She still has curved hips and sculpted shoulders but the sharp muscle tone is what catches your attention; only now, as you scan her up and down, you notice every part of her appears sun-kissed, healthy. She radiates vibrancy.

Her hair probably smells like paradise.

You really, really want to kiss her.

Instead, you throw out that initial awkward, "Hey."

"Hey." The response seems sincere, but she isn't really looking at you. She's shuffling her feet and keeping her eyes glazed to the floor.

"You look… tan," you smile.

"I was outside a lot," she smiles back, weakly.

"…the beach?"

"No, my aunt and uncle's ranch."

"Oh."

"I was mainly working."

" So like…on a farm?" And suddenly, you can't get the thought of her with a cowboy hat, tight jeans, and knotted flannel shirt out of your head. Jesus, the masturbation material.

She's going to be the death of you.

Playfully, she rolls her eyes, like she's onto your dirty mind. "Something like that. I like training the horses."

You nod your head, wanting to ask more but afraid of pushing too hard.

"Did you have fun?"

When her smile goes from genuine to forced, you think maybe you asked a bad question. "Yeah, I got some time to clear my head."

You go quiet and she bites her lip. An awkward silence lingers for a moment too long, and you're relieved when she finally breaks it this time.

"You look… fancy."

You scan your wardrobe–a black skirt-suit and high heels–and shrug your shoulders.

"I had an interview this morning."

Her eyes go wide. "For?"

"An internship at Schuester and Schuester. One of their grad students finishes this spring, so they have an opening. I've been trying to get in forever."

Her eyes flash excitement. "So how did it go?"

You shrug again. "I don't know yet."

Another smile. "I'm sure you were awesome."

You blush, not really knowing what to say. Yeah, she thinks you're awesome, but probably in a non-vagina-touching kinda way.

You wanna touch vaginas.

So bad.

It sucks.

You meet her eyes and it almost seems like guilt reaches her, and you feel it, too. Shit, you're probably going about this all wrong. Maybe you're projecting. Maybe you're putting too much pressure on what can't be forced…

You're about to apologize when she blurts, "I'm sorry I didn't call."

You look up and for a brief moment, catch her gaze. Her sad expression stirs something inside of you.

"I should've at least called and explained…"

"Britt, it's fine. You don't owe me anything."

She bites her lip momentarily before surprising you with a stern voice. "That's not what this is. It's not about owing. It's about caring."

And then, a free-falling butterfly with only half its wings—it's everywhere. It flutters through blood and chaos, playing the wind chimes of hope left in your chest. The faint sounds become louder and louder in your ears until your heart pounds out of rhythm.

"I just… I have Quinn."

"I know," you barely say, nervous sweat building up in your palms.

"And I can't do that."

You're noble enough to nod despite how bad the clenching in your chest is, and she watches you carefully.

"I didn't ruin it, right? We can still be friends? It's just...I don't have anyone quite like you, and...I need that."

You swallow, tasting the residual dust of heartbreak, already knowing what your response will be.

Because you'd rather have part of her than none of her.

"Britt," you smile, "Always."

And when you reach over with your pinky and link it with hers, you're more than pleased she squeezes back.


	13. Chapter 13

It takes two weeks for things to feel normal again.

Well, almost. Kind of.

"Normal" can be pretty subjective.

The initial awkwardness seems to be over—that three-day limbo where you and Brittany had fallen into an unspoken game of eye-fucking and blushing. It always ended with her running off and you feeling guilty, so you decided to master the art of subtlety again. Now you're careful with when and how you look at her, you only come when she calls, and you avoid anything that could be seen as potentially destructive to her relationship.

Which includes like half of your running thoughts.

So yeah, define "normal."

While you don't regret kissing Brittany, it's definitely changed things. Besides the evident weight of complications, you now feel the precipice of more seamed into a limitless pool of possibilities. There are knowing consequences alongside your fabricated fantasies. You are chained to the images of handholding, the breath of whispered secrets, days spent tangled in sweat-ridden sheets with the sticky honey of sex coating your skin.

Nothing else seems to be quite enough anymore.

There's also your expressive personality, which, honestly, gives you no chance at hiding your feelings. She has to know by now. You might as well have a sign on your forehead that says, "I have a big ol' gay crush on Brittany Pierce."

You're fucked.

—-

"San, I suck so bad at this." You're sitting on the other side of the booth when she slams her Shakespeare book shut in frustration.

"I told you, you're not allowed to use that word." Your eyes glare as you open the book again, the tip of your pointer finger landing where she was before. "Now, come on. What do you think he's saying here."

She leans over and glances at the text before sighing. "I'm pretty sure I asked you because I have no clue." The words come out short and frustrated, doubtful.

You smile when she huffs and her face reddens. Brittany so rarely gets mad that when she does, there's something sexy and commanding about her anger. She just has this presence, a controlled ascending rage that you want to know everything about.

You want everything her.

"Here, just like I showed you. Read each sentence slowly and pull out words you think could mean something else. Replace or rearrange them with simple ones and try again."

You watch as she studies the lines before her, her eyes slowly glossing from left to right. The pads of her finger and thumb find the top of the page and trap the corner. Her lips move as she reads but no words come out. She's so lost in concentration she doesn't even realize she's doing it.

Sometimes you just get so caught up in her hands—the delicacy of her movements, how quickly her eyes change shades of blue—that you lose yourself. Your heart squeezes, your blood slows, and warm embers burn within the pit of your stomach.

Like right now.

_"Admit impediments. Love is_

_not love_

_Which alters when it_

_alteration finds"_

She's just started reading aloud when you go back to studying the history of law.

"So what's an impediment?"

"Something that's in the way," you explain.

"Oh. So it's like … to admit when you have a boundary?"

You nod, full of pride. "Exactly."

"So what does 'when it alteration finds' mean?"

"You gotta remember that Shakespeare, most of his stuff is in iambic pentameter, so it has a set rhythm. He likes to play with words to keep that flow."

She gives you a puzzled look.

"Meaning he says stuff in a fancy way so he can keep his tempo."

She nods with a smile. "Got it."

"Shakespeare's basically talking about alterations—changes in love. He's pointing out that love isn't really love if it can easily be swayed."

She's still looking at you when you nonchalantly bury yourself into your book and you can feel the heat of her gaze. When you chance a glance in her direction a few seconds later, you're taken aback that her eyes still haven't left you.

In fact, you don't think she plans to stop staring at you.

And instead of doing what you've been doing—evading intensity—you stay in the moment. Your attention is focused, lips pressed together, eyes aimed at her, and you don't let the electricity leave. You feel every shred of reality. It bubbles in your chest, warms your belly, burns hot between your legs.

And then all you feel are her eyes on your skin, stopping and stalling near your jaw, the bend of your neck, your clavicle, the curve of your cleavage. Maybe you should give her pointers on subtlety.

But you're too in love with the way she looks at you.

Like she can't help but stare, even when she doesn't want to.

"It's … interesting," she finally leaves your gaze.

You nod, clear your throat, try to focus again—anything really. "Yeah. Sonnet 116 is like, maybe his most popular."

She peers down at the table, cheeks pink, intently avoiding eye contact,

"Yeah."

You just watch in awe.

Because maybe, just maybe, she has a big ol' gay crush on you, too.


	14. Chapter 14

You and Sam have a day-before-Thanksgiving tradition.

A "_get drunk and get laid"_ tradition.

Well, you get laid. Sam just stands in the club all trouty-mouthed and awkward, doing the white boy shuffle with his pink martini and super tight jeans. Dude has zero game.

The second your last midterm is in, you hurry across campus. You're so goddamn excited to not look at anything academic for the next five days you barely register the way small flecks of snow fall to the pavement. All you know is today's occasion calls for leg shaving and sexy underwear, and the hopes that someone will be taking off said underwear.

And truthfully, you just… you need something to take your thoughts away from her, even just for a little while.

You take your time getting ready. After a hot and long shower, you massage coconut oil into your skin, carefully flat-iron your hair and find your favorite fuck-me boots. By the time you're leaning into the full-length mirror, concentrating on a trail of dark eyeliner left behind your crafted movements, Sam walks in.

"Dude, you're still not ready?"

"Shut it, Trouty."

"Seriously. We're gonna hit traffic if you don't hurry up."

You want to rush, you really do, but your mascara clumps in the corner, and the leather skirt you wanted to wear isn't the same tone of black as the shirt you bought. You're hell-bent on not leaving this dorm until you're fully satisfied with your level of hotness, so Sam waits. You don't care when he huffs about you being knee deep in the closet, burying yourself in a mountain of clothes, shuffling through chaos—

"Santana! Someone's at the door!"

"Well answer it. I'm kinda busy here."

He sighs in bitter acquiescence and shuffles over to the door, pulling it open half-heartedly.

It's then you kinda wish you would've answered it, cause when you look over and see Brittany holding a stack of movies and two tubs of ice cream, you think she deserves a little more than Sam's grumpy-ass guppy face.

"Britt?"

"Hey," she says, glancing you over, taking in Sam's presence, grasping the scenery. "I, uh, well, Quinn went home for the weekend and I…"

"We're leaving in a minute," Trouty announces.

Part of you wants to scold him, yet, you won't, because he's thinking the exact same thing you're thinking:

Quinn's not available and you're just the consolation prize.

"Oh, I didn't—"

"What Sam is saying," you calmly interrupt, "Is that we're going dancing tonight."

"Oh. I guess, um, I guess you're busy then…"

Her lips press together tightly as her eyes turn to the floor, and the shadowed disappointment might be enough to slowly kill you.

Maybe you're wrong. Maybe you've misinterpreted the situation. She just wants your company. If Quinn were here she'd still want to spend time with you just the same.

Maybe…

"Do… you wanna come with us?"

You ask it before you have the time to question yourself. You don't want to spend the whole night under and overanalyzing. It is what it is, and your world's a better place when Brittany Pierce smiles.

And the moment she looks down at her precariously hanging sweat pants rolled at the waistband and a simple t-shirt, you finally see the weak grin you were aiming for.

"I didn't bring clothes with me."

"You can borrow something from me, if you want."

"Yeah?" Her tone touches a place hopeful.

"Yeah," you smile at her smile.

Everything seems okay again.

—-

The traffic sucks.

Sam bitches, a lot, but you honestly don't mind. Somewhere deep in your twisted masochist mindset, being this close to Brittany is the sweetest nothing you've ever wanted. Within the confines of Sam's small truck, you can feel her naked thigh pressed gloriously against your own, the hot, clammy sticking of skin, the bare nature of flesh on flesh. It gives you further imaginative detail on how smooth the full expanse of her legs are, where the bend of her knee might meet yours among a naked tangle, how far your reach would travel across a plane to find the opening between her legs.

All hypothetical calculations, of course.

And when you reach the club, it carries over.

More measurements.

Jack Daniels to Coke. Mouth to ear. Lips to skin.

Ill-intended solutions.

You blame the universe and whoever tailored that tight dress. It's just a little too small for her, maybe a little too real for your fantasies. And it's definitely not your fault that every time she leans across the table to make small talk, the weight of her upper body leans against yours.

"So how do you know about this place?"

"Evans brought me here for ladies' night a while back. We've been coming ever since."

"That's cool. You guys seem pretty close."

You have to laugh at that, because you can't think of a time you and Sam haven't been close. "Trouty and I have been friends for like ever, since kindergarten, I think. He lived five houses down from me. I know the dude like the back of my hand, even seen his Spiderman undies and all."

She laughs and gives you a teasing smirk. "Spiderman, huh?"

"Yup," your voice drips with humor, "You're not real friends until you've compared superhero intimate-wear."

She gives you a curious glare. "Oh, there's comparison material?"

"Definitely. I totally one-upped him with my Power Ranger undies."

"You sound pretty proud of that."

You smile wide and lean forward a little closer, because you know what you're about to say is gonna be bad, and well, you're halfway drunk— might as fucking well.

"Well, what can I say, I look good almost naked."

You get a slight hint of her blushing when she bites down on her bottom lip and teases, "I wouldn't know."

It's there, on the tip of your tongue— a flirtatious photoshoot offer, or nearly-naked Power Ranger lap-dances, whatever the hell she wants. You'll even wear matching socks.

But as she gets up from her stool, forehead glistening with sweat and cheeks pink, you let her walk away, and thought dies at the same place it started.

It's probably for the best.

You shouldn't ruin a good thing.

—–

Sam disappears. You half expect her to venture off for the night as well, but she doesn't. She stays close, too close, dancing to everything with the occasional ass grind during sexy songs. Twice she lets her hands dangerously roam your hips and glide near the curve of your pelvic bone. Each time sends shooting stars all through your body.

It doesn't matter where she touches you first because the feeling always ends between your legs.

You try to ignore it. You move when the music tells you. Every downbeat decides where you'll land in a sea of bodies, and you follow the rhythm.

Yet as soon as you find a cute, short blonde who presses her front into your back, Brittany's stepping in, and your lady-mojo loses its effect.

And as much as you want to be mad, you can't be, because you don't know what's more maddening— the fact that Brittany's totally cockblocking you, or just how fucking wet it's making you.

Wet enough that you have to repeatedly remind your vagina she has a girlfriend— a very crazy, dangerous girlfriend.

Goddamn big ol' gay crush.

—

You're sweating like crazy.

Titanium is blaring through the loudspeakers and she squeals in happiness, saying something about her lady jam, but all you can fathom is how much body heat is surrounding you. There's the warmth of her hands on your stomach, the heat of her breasts pressed firmly against your vertebrae.

It's all too much.

"I uh, I'll be back in a second."

She calls out to you, but you don't wait.

Air is too necessary.

—-

It's snowing buckets outside.

You watch precipitation fall in fat patterns and glue to the sidewalk as your breath leaves little clouds of condensation in the air. The clarity coming from damn near negative temperatures is doing wonders for you right now.

"Doing okay?"

Her voice catches you off guard as she parks herself next to you on the wet bench, rubbing her arms furiously to fight off chills.

You look over in concern, "It's kinda cold, Britt. You might wanna go back inside."

"Well, I'm busy trying to figure out why you're out here, silly."

You have to smile at that, because, come on…

"It's hot in there. I just need a minute."

She scoots closer, folding her arms over herself to combat the cold. "I'm not sure I wanna go back in there right now. Doesn't seem safe. Sam's hardcore sucking the face off some girl."

"Trouty was?" You smile and look at her in disbelief.

She nods.

"Gross."

"You're one to talk. I saw that girl you were dancing with earlier." She sends you a playful smirk.

"Blondie? She was cute and totally into me until you scared her off."

"Oh, I scared her?"

You nod. "Yup. You and your gangly tallness ruined it."

She gives you wide eyes. "I did not!"

"Good job, Lady Tarzan."

She huffs at your playful grin. "Good thing I did. She was like orange, San."

"Still cute though."

"I'm sure you're not too heartbroken," she teases.

You smile in defeat and shrug, because yeah, maybe you're a little heartbroken, but she doesn't need to know details.

Or how in a perfect world, you have a million moments like this with her. You get the simple pleasure of spending time with her whenever you want, watching her dance and laugh, and… exist, really.

Or shiver.

"Let's go back inside," you offer.

She shakes her head and sidles up a little closer to you, until her leg is flush against yours and your fingers touch "Just one more minute. The snow looks really pretty."

Her skin feels like ice. "Britt, you're freezing."

"A little, but I'm okay."

Your reaction is involuntary. You take her hands into yours and bring them to your lips, blowing the warmth of your breath directly on them, kneading life back into her fingertips. And at first you don't notice it, but then you do, because her eyes aren't on the snow. They're watching you, and for a second, you're the center of her universe.

—-

When you finally lead her back inside, it's stuffy, but warm, and it takes about twenty seconds to find Sam and some dark-skinned chick making out in a booth like horny teenagers.

"Gross," you mumble.

"I take it this doesn't happen often." It comes out as more of a question and you lean into the table with a smile, not really bothered with the situation. You're perfectly content just talking to her and her talking to you, no life interruptions or Quinn breathing down your neck. It's easy.

"Definitely not."

"See, that surprises me. Sam seems like he has that whole nerdy, sexy-lawyer thing going on," she chuckles.

Your eyes go wide. "Uh, no…"

"Why do you say it like that?"

You shake your head and laugh. "Sam is so far from ever being lawyer it hurts."

"What? I thought he was pre-law with you?"

You give her a disgusted grin and continue to shake your head. "Evans is like one of the laziest bums I know. Smart? Hell yeah, but you can't get into law school doing the bare-minimum."

"Hey, we can't all be super smart and motivated," she teases.

You roll your eyes playfully, yet still genuinely flattered and appreciative.

"Law is kind of a family thing for me. My pa's a judge, brother's a prosecutor."

"Fancy," she teases.

You shrug. "I've always wanted to be a D.A., but we'll see."

"Is that why you're doing the internship thing?"

"Eh, kinda. That's all about building connections. Will Scheuster is one of the most influential attorneys in the city. You work for him, you can work for anyone."

Brittany nods in understanding before smiling, "I think you can do anything you wanna do."

Something about the way she says it, the direct eye contact, the way she never looks anywhere else, it lets a warmth descend down your neck, your shoulder blades and tingle the tips of your fingers.

"Thanks," is all you can muster.

And when a playful nudge hits your chest and she leans into you once more, your heart moves like wind chimes.


	15. Chapter 15

ll hail MCM for her super quick, awesome beta skills on this one.

Either the world's off its axis or you've had a lapse in sanity. You're actually considering seeking out medical attention because there's a good chance you're fucking nuts.

She asked you if she could stay.

The night.

In your bed.

With you.

"_Saaaaan_, my feet hurt and I'm so tired, please? I promise not to hog the bed."

Your immediate thought was sure, the other bed's free, and then she said something about it being lumpy like grandma's mashed potatoes. It slowly dawned on you that she wanted to sleep in your bed, and she looked at you all cute and hopeful, and your heart did that thing where it stopped before it started racing, and you couldn't catch up with your thoughts in time to make an intelligent response, and so you didn't answer for the longest time, and when you finally did you just blurted the first thing that came to mind, and—

"I…um, I kinda…I don't think that's such a good idea, Britt."

You spent the entire night replaying the scene out in your mind, almost like a hologram. You remembered how her face just fell and she bit her lip quietly, nodding in understanding before walking away.

Of all the times to have a moment of superior moral compass.

So instead of spending the morning in bed with Brittany fucking Pierce—maybe cuddling, maybe touching your cold feet together, maybe reading over her shoulder—you're pumping gas in the cold and contemplating the costs of psychotherapy.

Jesus.

You said no.

No.

_Who does that_?

You drive to Lima on auto-pilot—no radio, no nothing. Your thoughts are spinning so hard even your mom notices the distracted look on your face during dinner.

"Santanita, you've hardly even touched your food. Comer, nina. You're getting too skinny."

You really try, but even your mom's piquane cornbread can't tempt your stomach.

And when you lie down in your old bedroom, staring at Alanis Morisette hanging from the wall, you wonder if your phone will light up any time soon.

—–

By Saturday, you're done waiting.

Your family drags you to some stupid cider mill out in the middle of nowhere, and you try to put her out of your mind. Instead, you tease your little brother about the stubble that's barely showing on his chin and listen to your dad talk about his new SUV.

Sunday you head back to campus with the radio on this time, singing along to songs you don't even like, and once you're back in your dorm, you sleep the day away.

By 7 AM on Monday, you're knuckle deep in lattes, and you couldn't be happier. It's exactly what you needed, even if it comes in the form of microfoam and espresso.

Distraction.

Because you haven't thought about her for exactly 88 minutes, a vast improvement from three days ago; and considering you haven't heard from her once in those three days, she definitely isn't wasting her time thinking about you.

Your focus now is all about pace, rhythm, nothing else. You concentrate on the cups placed before you, working two at a time. Pour, steam, garnish, serve—

"Well-well, this Monday just keeps on getting better."

When you look up at her pea coat and perfectly curled ends, you know it's too fucking early for this shit.

It's not like this moment wouldn't come, or you haven't been expecting it. Come on, you couldn't live in the comfort of a drama-free existence forever.

She's giving you one of those entitled, egocentric smirks, and only for the sake of adequate customer service, you deliver.

"Quinn."

"Cute apron," she offers with a wink. You let out a disgusted scoff and smile bitterly, because really, what else can you do.

"Can't say the same for that ugly ass coat," you retort, trying to regain some self-respect.

"I'm glad you're here," she grins.

"What's the matter, Fabray? Starbucks doesn't take platinum?"

Her smile moves wider and her laugh is smooth, intended.

"Oh, no, no. I'm all about ambiance. At Starbucks I don't get the personal satisfaction of watching you make my coffee."

You bite your lip and maintain a fake smile, only because you're desperate to keep your mouth shut. Whether you like it or not, you need this shitty job, so yeah, you'll swallow your pride.

To an extent.

She lets out an elongated yawn and leans on the pick-up counter, watching you amusedly as you steam milk. "What the fuck do you want, Fabray?"

_God_, do you want to slap the smile off her face.

"Caramel macchiato, non-fat, medium. And you better make that two shots of espresso. I'm pretty exhausted. Britt kept me up all night."

_Wait, what?_

Your hand slips as you're spinning the pitcher beneath the steamer, and of course, hot ass coffee spills down the side of your wrist. It hurts like a bitch when the foam sticks to your skin, and you inadvertently spew a few profanities on your way to the hand sink.

The cold water helps, yet the sensation of something sinking deep in your stomach seems to far outweigh any other feeling.

When you look over she's grinning with some kind of twisted vindication. You dry your hands and reluctantly make your way back to the task at hand, knowing she's eyeing you the whole time.

"You seem a little…thrown," she beams.

"I'm fine."

"See, I think you're lying to me."

"Well, I think your blush makes you look like a stripper, but hey, it's all a matter of perspective."

"And what does your wonderbra say about perspective?"

You don't respond, you're too busy silently seething and avoiding using the left side of your hand. All you want is to make her stupid fucking coffee and get her out of your face.

She clicks her tongue at you before leaning in a little further, looking directly at you, and her voice comes out just above a whisper, "You know what else I think? You must not be very smart, cause after all this time, you still don't listen very well."

"I don't listen to idiots," you retort.

Her smile fades, forms into something much darker. "Well, you might want to start listening, because I'm done playing games with you. I warned you. Next time you try and fuck my girlfriend, you're going to regret it."

"Why, afraid someone else might do it better?"

Her eyes flash with intensity. "You wish."

"Oh? Maybe I should ask Rachel Berry for comparison notes."

"Stay outta my business," she warns.

"I mean, if Berry let's anyone else get a turn..."

Quinn reaches forward and grabs the top of your apron, pulling you close, staring, and you see the anger, the suspended disbelief across her features.

"You're fucking done, Lopez."

You slowly remove her fingers from your apron and push yourself back, oddly pleased with yourself for getting under her skin. Even as you finish the task at hand, you smile mischievously. You don't even bother putting caramel on top of her coffee. You just close the lid, smile, and shove the cup over to her that says _Berry-Fucker_ before wishing her a good day.

Yeah, that probably warrants another _boom, motherfucker._


	16. Chapter 16

On Sunday, you make the mistake of logging on to Facebook.

After scrolling past nearly a dozen dumbass ice bucket challenges, a tagged photo of Brittany's lips pressed to Quinn's smiling cheek takes over your dash. She's smirking happily, her hand buried in Quinn's blonde hair, a starry look of love in her eyes. You can't look away, even if it slowly destroys you.

And the more you stare, the more it drives you mad. The irrational disappointment settles in your stomach, sinking, lower and lower.

You shouldn't feel this way. She told you she wanted to be friends.

You said you were cool with friends.

Have you not been cool? Did you do the awkward staring thing again? Maybe that's why she hasn't called you.

Tequila is way better than contemplating. Decidedly, you go straight for the bottle of Cuervo and tip it back until the world spins around you.

Funny how everything still manages to be the color of her eyes.

—

On Monday you wake up with a pounding skull and broken phone screen. You reek of booze and your skin is sticky, so you take a scalding hot shower, pop an Excedrin and attempt to lose yourself in Netflix. Three episodes of Breaking Bad later, you can't shake the nagging sensation at the corner of your mind; and when your focus fades, the breath from your lungs is hollow, bated.

Tequila isn't hollow, though.

Tequila is liquid strength.

—-

On Tuesday, you feel nothing.

The world is painted with indifference.

Pain and pleasure no longer exist in the same place, and the normal stomach clenching wave of excitement you once got from Brittany seems to have been replaced with something else— something darker, richer, more encompassing.

It's like your heart can't bear the disappointment of being with or without her, so it won't bend at all.

Maybe the paint proves that sometimes nothing is better than something.

—-

On Wednesday, Evans asks if you're done acting all broody like the chick from Twilight. You tell him to fuck off and quickly come to terms with life:

You need to get your shit together, and you need to do it soon, 'cause you're a hot mess.

Logic says the whole friends thing hasn't been working out for you, and after Quinn's jab to your pride…well, fuck her and fuck that.

You didn't sign up for this shit.

You've had your shit wrecked, threatened, used, scorched by scalding milk, and most importantly, perpetually sexually frustrated. No one should have this kind of power over you.

Like, seriously…you're only human. You can't live off of four-day-late text messages, misgiven kisses, and Saturday nights with your left hand.

You're Santana fucking Lopez. You're worth more.

—

Brittany calls that night.

Her voice isn't as enthusiastic as it usually is, and you kinda feel responsible, but you don't see a lot of other options right now.

"What happened to you yesterday? You didn't come to practice." You can hear the concern laced in her words.

You're tactful about it. You apologize, make up a lame excuse about being busy, and leave it at that. Honestly, you could never completely dismiss her, but you do recognize and aim to repair the vulnerable position you've put yourself in. This shit can't go on forever.

She softly claims understanding, but it's layered over something else, and when you finally say goodnight, you don't feel better.

But you don't feel worse, either.

It's a start.

—-

Friday, she texts you again.

_Come to the game tonight?_

Your answer is short and sweet.

_Not tonight, Britt. Good luck._

About two minutes later a sad face flashes beneath the crack on your screen and you don't respond. There isn't really a whole lot to say.

—-

On Monday, she calls.

"Are you coming tomorrow?"

You hate how hopeful she sounds, you really do.

"I'm, I'm not sure…"

The line goes silent for a minute.

"San, did I like, do something? I'm super sorry if did. Honestly."

Your voice shakes and you stumble a bit. "No, you're fine, really. I'm just swamped with finals."

It's a cop out, but whatever. There doesn't need to be drama.

"You gotta take a break sometime. Can't you stop in just for a few minutes? I feel like we haven't talked in forever."

"We texted the other night." Yeah, you took it there, fifth grade style.

"Kinda, I guess."

You can sense the disappointment in her tone, the way she stretches out certain words. And you know exactly what she means—the lack of timeliness in your responses, your eagerness…it's dwindled, and although you've been responding, the content lacks the chemistry you once helped provide.

"Look, I know you're super busy being smart and awesome, but like, I really want you to see our competition routine. And I'm totally failing this Shakespeare stuff without you."

You saw this coming a mile away and you're so glad you're prepared for it.

"I emailed a detailed description of what you need for your next assignment, Britt. It's all there for you."

"San, that email was like Spanish or something. And he just keeps saying 'Will'over and over again in this poem. Why can't we just meet like normal?"

_Because I can't bear to look at you without my chest wanting to explode._

_Because I want your blue eyed lady babies._

_Because I'm a spineless twat._

Your throat catches. Nothing seems like a good response.

"I-I'm sorry, I've got a lot going on right now, B."

When she barely whispers "Okay," you chase her off the phone as quickly as possible.

The last thing you need is guilt trying to change your mind.

—–

She texts you smiles and a cartoon muscle flex early the next day, encouraging you to "_Crush your exams and have an awesome morning._" It's impossibly cute and makes your heart flutter a bit.

But then it sinks seconds later, and you really don't know how much longer you can do this. Maybe you just need to grow some balls and tell her the whole friends thing isn't gonna work out for the two of you.

You try to conjure up the courage all day. At one point you even have the text message all typed up and ready to go, but it just makes you sound like a tool, so you delete it. She deserves more than that.

You eat dinner in your dorm and make a list of possible excuses in your mind. Maybe you could just tell her you're dating a girl who is crazy jealous, or that you don't have time for friends. It could work. It could also sound like the total bullshit it is… Either way, they're all equally douche-like, so you have that to look forward to.

You're considering more possible scenarios when a soft knock comes from your door. Your feet sink into the carpet as you walk curiously, and, admittedly, a little hopeful, too.

And when you open the door a catch a glance of her—the sharp jawline, colorful lips, contagious smile—you know this is a feeling that isn't going to just go away.

It could be so devastating for you.

"Hey," she smiles softly at you.

"Hey."

You avoid her eyes but look down at her hands, noticing a small bag and two styrofoam cups, both with steam emanating from the top.

"I brought hot chocolate and donuts. Food is like, total brain-power."

Your mouth feels thick as her eyes trail over you. You're at a loss for the moment.

"Um, thanks. That's awesome and I appreciate it, really, but…"

"You're busy," she answers knowingly.

"I'm about to go to bed."

A quick flick of her eyes catch your clock.

"At 9:30?"

Your lick your lips. They're really dry.

"I have to get up early."

You sense the frustration in her sigh as she drops everything on the table and runs a hand through her hair.

"San…"

A tone which is usually so easy-going and fluid is now dominant, frustrated. There's no way you could not respond to it.

"What is this?" Her pointer finger motions between the two of you. "Did I like, piss you off or something?"

Your eyes glaze off to the side as you shake your head. You can feel the heat of her eyes trailing your features, looking for some kind of explanation.

"Is this about a few weeks ago? 'Cause I thought we talked about that and—"

"No," you shake your head, but she keeps going.

"I know it was awkward, and I feel super bad, I just—"

"Britt."

She ignores you and carries on. "I didn't mean it. I don't know why I did it. I'm sorry, it just kind of happened and it won't happen again, I swear—"

"Britt," you say a lot louder this time, and she finally looks up at you, inquisitive and quiet.

"It's fine. I'm not angry with you," you assure her softly.

She just stands there, playing with the seams of her puffy vest.

"I don't get it," she admits.

"What don't you get?"

"Why. Why you're avoiding me."

"I'm not—"

"Don't lie to me. You haven't answered my texts and calls for almost two weeks."

This time you can't avoid her eyes, and they're all heated, gorgeous, and angry. You look away immediately 'cause you know any fabricated excuse is just going to make this worse.

Suddenly the room is hot and stuffy and an anchor is strapped to your chest. She waits patiently as you swallow thickly. Your hands are busy fidgeting with the drawstring on your sweatpants.

"I just…I just need a little space right now."

Her eyebrows come together in confusion. "Ok…

The room grows silent and it's so fucking uncomfortable. After a pause she finally says, "So you don't want to see me anymore."

"I…" You stumble, she waits. "…I wouldn't say that."

Your hand instinctively pushes the rim of your glasses up your nose—a nervous tick—and you're fearing the inevitable.

You used to count down the minutes until your tutoring sessions ended. Maybe you should be doing the same now, because the next ten seconds could very well be all that you have left with her.

"Then what would you say? Because I'm really trying to understand this and you're being super confusing. Why would you need space? What did I do wrong?"

_10_

You watch the dismantled confusion and a swirling, guilt-stricken sensation rolls through you. You kinda hate yourself right now. "I'm not mad," you admit with a shaky voice, "I'm…torn."

_8_

"About?"

_6_

"About seeing you."

_5_

"Seeing me? I don't get it."

You press your lips together tightly and hold your breath, knowing it's now or never.

_4_

"It's hard for me to see you because we're friends and...I want more that that. A lot more. I like you, Britt, so much. Maybe even love, I'm not sure."

There. You said it.

_3_

You finally release your breath and let the sick, swimming feeling take over. She stares at you, watching as you nervously watch her.

_2_

Her face. It looks so…scared.

And you have to wonder if you just destroyed any chance of her being a part of your life.

Her stature changes. Her back straightens and her face becomes stoic. She lifts her head and glances over to you, delivering an "Okay," with a soft, understanding tone. It's relieving.

"Britt, I—I should've told you sooner." It's probably the most honest thing you've ever said and it makes you feel vulnerable.

She looks away. You step forward, maybe to reach for her, maybe not.

_1_

She shifts away from your touch and doesn't say anything, just stands there with her top lip trapped between her bottom lip, staring at the floor. You want her to say something.

Mostly you want her to tell you what she's thinking, feeling, what she needs.

A selfish part of you wants her to love you, too.

But instead, she grabs her coat and walks to the door. She stands there for a moment like she's considering something, but no words come out. She just grabs the handle and turns, letting the frame jerk back slowly on it's hinge, leaving you with nothing but the sounds of closure.

At least she didn't say bye.


End file.
